


Scheherazade

by LeetheT



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	Scheherazade

_With thanks to Loretta and Teresa for praise and, especially, criticism_

 Illya Kuryakin holstered his gun even as the last THRUSH crumpled to the floor. He scanned the computer banks before him, located the bomb, and saw immediately that he wouldn't be able to disarm it in time. Then he began a different search, no less urgent, finally locating the controls and commands that would allow him to print out the most important data in the machine.

His communicator whistled. He ignored it, focused on the paper spilling into his hands, running his eyes intently over the names and facts listed as the bomb timer ticked three feet away.

The computer continued printing and Illya continued reading, 50 names, 50 lives that flowed through his fingers to pile in white coils on the floor as the timer crawled toward zero.

When the computer fell quiet, Illya ripped the sheet free, scanned the edge to be sure he'd missed nothing, dropped it, spun on his toes, and ran.

***

On the grassy hill above the small complex, Napoleon Solo looked at his watch and cursed. At his side, Italian agent Mario Dini, seeing his intent, grabbed his arm.

“Don't be a fool, Solo—”

Napoleon jerked his arm free and ran full-tilt down the hillside.

He reached the gate when the building blew up. The concussion knocked him on his backside, arms flung up to protect his face from the debris that pelted him. After one stunned moment he sat up, ears ringing, peering through the cloud of raining particles, and sprang to his feet.

“Illya!”

“Here.” His partner came staggering out through the settling dust, his black clothes torn and bloodied at shoulder and knee. Napoleon moved forward, grabbed him, and pulled him farther from the burning remains of the UNCLE data outpost.

Dini drove the car down the hill and flung the back door open. Napoleon bustled his partner inside and climbed in after him. There, a safe distance away, the three agents regarded the smoking rubble.

Illya, still panting, said, “I didn't have time to disarm it.”

Dini cursed in Italian for a while, then said, with unconvincing dismissiveness, “At least THRUSH won't get the data.”

“Yes,” Napoleon said grimly. “But what are we going to do without it? We needed those names as much as THRUSH does.”

Illya leaned back in the seat, wiping sweat and dust from his face — he only managed to smear the blood. “Good. Then I've justified my existence once again.”

Napoleon looked at his partner speculatively, then reached out to brush some dust from his shoulders and hair, knowing Illya wanted him to ask what he meant.

“Your existence has always been justified in my mind,” he said instead. Unless the layer of dust and blood specks deceived him, Illya's face had acquired that half irked, half embarrassed look of pleasure genuine compliments always gave him.

“What are you two talking about?” Dini demanded, twisting around in the front seat to look at them. “Carlo is going to have my ass for this. Waverly isn't going to be very happy either. The star pupils might even get a detention.”

“Just drive, Mario,” Napoleon said, injecting a slight edge to the words to remind the man who the senior agent was around here. “We need to make our reports and get back to New York.”

Mario snapped his jaw shut, turned around, put the car in gear and stepped on the gas.

Napoleon opened the first aid kit that no UNCLE car was without, poured peroxide on a folded bandana and started gently mopping his partner's cut face.

“You know, I always thought that the reason we came home in pieces so much more often than any other agents was that we're routinely given the toughest assignments — hold still.”

“Ow—” Illya tried in vain to wave away Napoleon's carefully dabbing hand.

The American continued, “But what if that isn't true?”

Illya scowled. “What do you mean?”

Napoleon pressed the cloth against a cut over his partner's left eye. “What if we're just not very good at this?”

Illya stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. Napoleon kept swabbing.

Illya jerked his head back as Napoleon dabbed a cut along his temple. “That hurts.”

“Big baby,” Napoleon muttered, relentless. “We've got first class seats for once, and they won't let you on the plane looking like this.”

“All right, all right,” Illya said finally, realizing Napoleon wasn't going to play along. “I have the names.”

Napoleon stopped mopping, grinned.

From the front seat, Mario exclaimed, “How?”

“I printed them out of the computer before it blew.”

“Where's the printout?” the Italian agent asked.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Napoleon cautioned.

Meeting Mario's gaze in the rearview mirror, Illya tapped his head.

Mario's black eyes widened. “Why didn't you save the printout?”

“It's safer in my head.”

“Fifty names and aliases?” Mario pulled from the side road onto the highway and accelerated; they were 30 kilometers outside Rome.

“It's amazing the incentive a ticking bomb creates,” Illya said.

“Fifty names? How in hell will you be able to remember all of them?” Mario said, faintly contemptuous.

“Well, I've always found that for every stupid question I'm asked, I remember one less bit of crucial data,” Illya said.

Napoleon ducked his head to hide his smile. Illya rarely rose to other's jibes, but when he did it was a pleasure to witness.

“Mind the traffic, Agent Dini,” Napoleon put in mildly. “We have valuable cargo here.” He elbowed his stone-faced partner, saw the corners of Illya's mouth twitch.

Hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, Mario shut up and drove.

They were just outside Rome, driving slowly in heavy traffic, when the dashboard blew up. A suffocating cloud of red smoke filled the car, and their lungs, sucking out thought and consciousness.

***

“Gentlemen.”

Napoleon blinked; his eyelids were heavy. His head was heavy. His body slumped heavy in the padded chair. His arms, handcuffed in his lap, were heavy. He looked right and saw a man with a THRUSH rifle. He looked left and saw his partner, head lolling, cuffed like he was. Past him was another armed THRUSH. Both Napoleon and Illya were wearing coveralls. During their little nap they'd clearly been stripped of clothing and weaponry.

“Wake up, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Napoleon looked straight ahead. A man sat at a desk. A pale man, white-haired, grey-faced, yellow-eyed, slightly hunched; the look of a man with only a few months to live.

_Longer than us, I'd wager._

Illya lifted his head with a soft moan, blinked at the man.

“Karelian,” he said, puzzled.

“Indeed yes,” the man said. “Good to see you again, Mr. Kuryakin.” He looked at Napoleon. “And it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solo. I've heard much about you. Central will be pleased at this unexpected bonus.” His voice was the rustle of a dry wind through dead leaves.

“Where is Mario Dini?” Napoleon asked.

“Your driver? Dead.” The word carried no more emotion than an entry in a ledger. “I didn't need him.”

Napoleon waded through his soggy mind in search of facts. Anton Karelian. Denmark. A case a year or so ago. Illya'd been on his own. Long-range missile thefts from a military base and a little private torture chamber for Karelian's own amusement.

“I thought you blew him up,” Napoleon said to Illya.

“I tried,” Illya replied.

To Karelian, Napoleon said, “You're supposed to be blown up. This smacks of impertinence.”

Karelian's mouth thinned. “I intend to be still more impertinent, Mr. Solo. Even discourteous. Not to you, of course. You're to be sent on to Central in a few days. Your partner, however, will be the beneficiary of my new and improved interrogation techniques.”

“New box, same soap powder,” Illya said, meeting the man's eyes levelly.

Affecting puzzlement, Napoleon asked, “What is it you want to know? Where to find the best alfredo sauce? We were on holiday.”

Karelian laughed softly. “You know, Mr. Kuryakin is easy to find when he is working. One simply follows the trail of explosions. I know the data that computer contained. I know Mr. Kuryakin was in the outpost before it blew up. I know he has those names.”

“There was no time,” Napoleon said. “We lost it all.”

“I'm willing to take the chance that you are ... mistaken, Mr. Solo,” Karelian said. He raised his unsteady hands, indicating his frail body. “I don't have a great deal of time left. Thanks in part to your associate, my ambitions have been curtailed. However, I still serve THRUSH and its goals. That is my legacy. But really, this doesn't concern you. I'm going to have a little chat with Mr. Kuryakin. If he cooperates, you'll both be sent alive and relatively undamaged to THRUSH Central.”

“I know you want me to ask—” Illya began.

“No,” Napoleon cut in. “Let me: And if he doesn't?”

Karelian laughed again, a faint exhalation and a slight lifting of his thin shoulders. “He will.”

***

The guards escorted Napoleon along a few corridors. Glimpses through the few uncurtained windows showed him they were surrounded by flat fields, and that it was daytime.

At the end of a hall one guard opened a door and the second guard ushered Napoleon in by hammering his rifle butt into the agent's back. The first guard extended a booted toe as he sailed into the room; Napoleon tripped and rolled onto his side. A guard knelt beside him, fastened something around his ankle. They left as Napoleon got to his feet. He heard the lock click and the bolt scrape home.

The room was square and white, with a barred opening in the metal door and one very small window high on the far wall, also barred. Two bare cots, heads pointed together toward a corner, sat along the walls. The other corner held a stainless steel latrine. He saw no cameras, but the room might be bugged. Not that that mattered; anyone who wanted to monitor their conversation had only to stand at the door.

Napoleon started for the door, but a tug on his leg stopped him. He was chained by the ankle to the wall. Measuring his radius, he found he could get to one cot and the latrine, and to approximately the middle of the room. That was all.

He sat on the cot, staring at the metal plate at the end of his chain, fastened to the wall by four heavy bolts. Considering how he might break free kept him from gnawing on helpless anger and fear about what his partner was going through.

***

The door opened after dark, and Napoleon jumped up, dropping the stretch of chain he'd been working at for what felt like hours, trying to loosen the wall bolts.

Two guards — different guards, a man and a woman, both dark-haired and surprisingly young — opened the door and pushed Napoleon's partner inside, shutting the door quickly.

Illya staggered in, collapsing on Napoleon's cot. Napoleon sat beside him, touched his arm. Illya flinched, and his partner did too, less obviously.

“Sorry,” Napoleon said. “Tell me.”

Illya shook his head. “Karelian's thugs just danced the two-step on my body for a while. Nothing I'm not accustomed to.” He sat up carefully, bent, elbows on his knees, forehead in his hands. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, with a concentration that told Napoleon how much he was hurting.

“I thought he was an expert,” Napoleon said. “Anyone could do this.”

Illya's mouth tilted fractionally, and Napoleon allowed himself to breathe. Even a hint of a smile was a relief. He laid his hand lightly on his partner's back; all he had to offer as comfort was his presence.

Finally Illya leaned back, eyes shut, and slumped against the cold bare concrete wall.

“You should lie down,” Napoleon said.

Illya shook his head, vehemently. “Do you remember Oregon?”

Napoleon hesitated. “What?”

“Don't make me repeat myself.”

“What do you mean, do I remember? I'm older than you, but I'm not senile.”

“You remember Trace.”

“I remember him.” Finally Napoleon realized what his partner was doing. Anything, any distraction, would help him deal with the pain. “I remember you nearly ripped his throat out.”

“He was asking for it.”

“True, but you would have gotten blood all over me.”

“So that's why you stopped me. I wondered.”

“That's not why.” Napoleon thought back to that day; God, how many times had they been in situations like that — like this — holding on by the skin of their faith in one another?

“Why? Don't tell me you were starting to feel sorry for him.”

Illya's voice was stronger, and Napoleon felt his own knotted body ease.

“No. I didn't care what you did to him. I didn't want you to do that to yourself.”

His partner sounded a little surprised. “It's not as if he would have been the first person I'd killed.”

“No, but he was unarmed.”

“He deserved it,” Illya said with quiet venom. Napoleon gently, very gently, bumped his shoulder.

“I know. But you don't. You would have regretted it.”

“No I wouldn't. I remember ...”

“What?” Napoleon prompted.

“I remember what he did to you,” Illya said, almost a whisper, but still angry. “I should have killed him. I wanted to.”

“But you didn't,” Napoleon argued. “I was in no condition to stop you if you'd chosen not to listen to me.”

Illya was silent.

Outside the door, the guards, Davidson and Green by their nametags, glanced at one another, then away.

Finally the Russian answered. “I knew that you didn't want me to do it. That you would ... think less of me.”

“Never,” Napoleon promised. “Never.”

When the voices fell silent, the female guard, Green, glanced in the barred window to see the agents slumped against one another, asleep.

She stepped away, not looking at her colleague, Davidson, and set her back straight against the wall for the rest of the night.

***

They slept until the day-shift guards awakened them in the afternoon by unlocking the door. They entered, two burly middle-aged males, and one of them picked Illya up by the arm. Napoleon launched himself at the guard, got his arm around his throat and was dragging him closer to the wall, so he could use the chain as a garrotte, when the other guard slammed his rifle stock against his head. Napoleon crumpled without a whimper.

He woke up a few hours later, head throbbing, and crawled over to the wall bracket to work at the chain. When the splitting agony in his head forced him to stop that, he leaned on the wall and tried to squeeze his foot out of the manacle, but he realized quickly that that wasn't a viable option.

At dusk he started up, like a man afraid of vampires. A few minutes later he heard the door being unlocked.

The guards let Illya go, almost gently, and closed the door behind him.

He looked at Napoleon, an expression of pain rather than a plea for help, and collapsed like a cut string. Napoleon lunged for him and nearly took a header to the floor when the chain pulled him up short. “God damn it.”

He knelt at the end of the chain and reached in vain for his partner, lying on his face only two feet away. “Illya ... Illya. Wake up.”

The Russian stirred.

“Illya...” Napoleon groaned, then inhaled and put some bite into his tone. “Illya. Wake up.”

Illya blinked, lifting his head to stare blank-eyed at his partner.

Napoleon said, wretched, “I can't reach you.”

Illya got his elbows under him. His body trembled as he pulled himself a few feet closer, then he wavered and collapsed.

Napoleon cursed, stretching out his hands. He managed to get his fingers into Illya's coveralls and drag him nearer, then grasped his shoulders to lift him. Illya awoke with a gasp of pain but offered no resistance as Napoleon drew his shaking body against his own.

“How bad?” Napoleon asked softly.

Illya leaned his head against his partner's shoulder. “Electricity,” he breathed out. “Nothing fatal.” Another breath. “I just can't...” Another breath. “Move very well.”

Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya and eased him a little more upright, sitting cross-legged. He held him for a while in silence.

“Looks like it's my turn to tell you a story,” he said finally, and felt Illya's chest jump in a silent laugh.

“Make it good,” Illya whispered.

“Remember Helsinki?”

Another silent chuckle.

“Just the first syllable.”

“It's too cold up there to be Hell,” Napoleon said.

“You're spoiled.”

“Of course I'm spoiled. I'm an American. I've got everything.”

“Have you?”

Napoleon chuckled drily. “Of course. I've got my health. I've got an interesting, exciting job—”

Another huff of laughter from his partner.

“I'm smart and funny and handsome and —” He paused. “What was that?”

“I said, 'and delusional.'“

“Shut up. Who's telling this story?”

“Sorry.” Illya moved slightly, sitting a little straighter, unable to completely silence the grunt of pain.

Napoleon adjusted his position along with his partner, layering calm over the cold fear and hot anger. “So...where was I?”

“Smart and funny,” Illya whispered. “I forgot the third one.”

“Handsome. Yes.” He adjusted his grip, trying to not hold too tightly to his partner's bruised body. “And I've got the best friend any human being could ask for.”

Illya's hand came up to wrap around Napoleon's forearm. He squeezed briefly and Napoleon responded with a careful hug.

“So yes, I am spoiled. Now, about Helsinki...”

Davidson and Green looked at one another briefly.

Davidson said, “Are you okay?”

“Be quiet,” Green hissed, clutching the gun tighter.

***

On day three, one guard kept his rifle leveled at Napoleon while the other guard lifted Illya bodily from the cot.

They'd been given water, but no food. With his waning strength Napoleon got up and advanced on the man, but the cant and steadiness of the rifle convinced him he was considered perfectly expendable. He watched, sick, as they took Illya out of the room, then set back to work on his chain, cursing his scraped hands; the blood made the chain slick, harder to hold on to.

When night fell, there was an extra guard, to help carry Illya's unconscious, soaking wet body in and drop it on the cot. The trio left the room, and the third guard disappeared down the hall, whistling “Strangers in the Night.” Davidson and Green took their places outside the door.

Napoleon went to the cot. “Oh, Jesus.” He gingerly unzipped the soggy coveralls to see the burn marks on his partner's bruised torso — the sort of burns an electrical prod would produce. “Illya...”

He railed inside, seething with frustration and the knowledge that he would kill Karelian for this. He had nothing, not a towel, not a blanket, nothing to ease the pain of the burns. Nothing but rage.

Illya stirred, jerked halfway upright before he was fully conscious. Napoleon caught him, knelt before him to hold him steady, feeling the cold water drip from his partner's body onto his hands.

“Easy.” The Russian relaxed in his arms. “Lie back down.”

Illya shook his head — stubborn, stubborn Russian — and sat up, shaking, dragging his legs over the side of the cot. He planted his elbows on them, visibly battling for composure. His face was white as a morgue sheet. Pain narrowed his eyes.

Finally he choked out, “I've been lying down. All day.”

Napoleon forced a smile, but no quip came to him.

Illya let his head droop, staring at his own hands clasped before him.

“Napoleon.”

Davidson and Green, at attention outside, listened, not looking at one another.

“I'm here,” Napoleon said softly.

“This is not going well.”

The American had no answer, because even in these straits he could not lie to his partner. Helpless anger, coiled in his stomach for three days, had drained more of his strength than hunger. He stood up, awkwardly pacing the length of his chain.

“You've read the report on Karelian's techniques. The physical torture is just a warmup. Eventually ... I'll tell him what they want to know. Unless I don't live to tell him.”

“What?” Napoleon stopped, somehow angrier that Illya was being indirect — delicate — for his benefit. “What are you saying?”

Illya raised his head, met his partner's eyes.

When they'd met, Napoleon had thought Illya's gaze inhumanly cold. He'd learned later that Illya, cursed with unusually expressive eyes that continually betrayed him, had had to teach himself to keep what he felt, who he was, from showing. That skill was part of what made him so exceptional in undercover situations. Other than the few women he had loved, Illya dropped that mask before no one but his partner.

He dropped it now, and icy fear shot through Napoleon's chest.

“No,” he said.

“Damn you,” Illya said, low, startling him. “You cannot be selfish now. There is too much at stake. I need to know I can rely on you.”

“You can.” Napoleon inhaled slowly, deliberately, though his heart was fluttering in his throat. “You can have the last drop of my blood. But I'll be damned if you can have that. Not from me.”

“Fifty lives depend on this. I can't ...” He drew in a shuddering breath, and Napoleon marveled at his partner's will, that even now he would not admit that he might break.

“You won't,” Napoleon snapped. He sat down on the cot next to Illya, grabbed the chain in his aching, bloodstained hands, and gave it another jerk. Chips of paint were flaking off around the metal plate, physical evidence that he wasn't deluding himself, that the bolts were loosening.  “I'll get you out of here.”

“Or die trying?” Illya said weakly.

“You know better than that. I never give up.” Using his anger, he yanked again. “But I'll give up on everything before I give up on you. Don't ask me that again.” He dropped the chain, his muscles suddenly turned to rubber.

Illya exhaled, a long, exhausted rattle. “If this goes on much longer, I won't have to. And if he starts on you—”

“Shut up.” He put his arm around Illya, feeling him tremble, and leaned the both of them back against the wall. “Try to sleep.”

Illya's head fell on Napoleon's shoulder. “Napoleon ...” No more argument; the word was a statement of his condition.

Napoleon's stomach clenched. He hugged his partner. “I'll think of something. I always do.” He cast about in his memory for a moment. “This should put you to sleep: Remember the flying saucer in California?”

Without moving, without looking, Davidson knew Green was crying.

***

When Gary let himself into the hotel room at 5 a.m., Lisa was standing in the middle of the room in jeans and a sweater, arms wrapped around herself. One light was on. She didn't come to him, and he knew what she was going to say.

“I can't take it any more.” Her voice was cold, almost angry.

“He'll kill us,” he said.

“We can do it during the day,” she said. “It's our day shift today.”

“Today!”

“They won't last another week. _I_ won't last another week. We can take one of the trucks. It'll be half an hour before anyone even notices we're gone.”

He walked past her into the room. “He'll kill us.” He looked at his hands. Why weren't they shaking? “THRUSH will kill us. They don't give second chances, especially to rookies.”

She turned to face him. “How long do you think they're going to live? If you can keep listening to this —” One arm snapped free, waving vaguely in the direction of the lab — “and not go crazy, not do something, you're already dead.”

He shook his head. “Why now? We've watched Karelian do this to half a dozen other people. Why these two?”

Her arms dropped to her sides as her shoulders relaxed. “You tell me,” she said calmly.

He looked at her, but couldn't speak while he did so. Lowering his gaze to his hands again, he said, “Every word they say ... every word I listen to without doing anything, destroys a little more of my love for you. None of the others ...” He clenched his fingers.

She spoke softly. “I can't let this go on, and still be a human being.” Jolted, he realized she was crying. “If I just listen 'til they're dead, I'll be dead too.”

She rubbed her arm across her eyes, and Gary wondered at her strength.

“You're right,” he said. She came to him, sobbing, and he held her.

***

The unlocking of the cell door the next morning did not wake either occupant. The guards came inside quietly and set their rifles against the wall, easing the door shut. Green went to the cot where the two men lay, each curled on one half, heads nearly touching, as if they couldn't bear to be separated in this place.

She touched them both on the cheek. Napoleon awoke and started upright, staring at her. She held out both hands to show she was unarmed.

“Come with us,” she said quietly, then looked at Illya, who hadn't moved.

Napoleon sat up, cradled his partner's head in his hands, and spoke low into his ear. Davidson unlocked the ankle chain while Green collected the rifles.

Kneeling by the bolts in the wall, Davidson looked up. “Did you do this?”

Napoleon turned to see Davidson hold up the chain and give it a yank. The plate and bolts came straight out of the wall, along with some concrete rubble.

Napoleon sighed and turned back to his partner, shaking him gently.

Illya groaned and Napoleon eased him upright, then pulled him to his feet. The Russian could barely walk.

Davidson took his rifle from Green and tilted his head toward the door. “Come on.”

Napoleon slid Illya's arm over his shoulder and the two agents moved out in front of the guards.

Bleary, Illya looked around. “What..?”

“Hush,” Napoleon said softly. “It's okay.”

They moved slowly; Napoleon, acutely aware of the guns at his back and the change in routine, wished that he could believe things were already so bad they couldn't get worse.

Their guards said nothing until they came to a four-way intersection.

“Right,” Davidson directed the agents.

Ahead, a guard sat at a desk beside a double door. He looked up at them. Napoleon tried to look hangdog; Illya, semi-conscious, had no trouble appearing nonthreatening.

“What's up?”

“They're going to THRUSH Central,” Davidson said, and Napoleon was able to place his accent: English. The guard got up, came around the desk and unlocked the doors.

They emerged into bright morning sunlight. The fields sparkled with moisture; a dirt road, hedge-lined, led into the distance, and a paneled truck awaited them. Napoleon's theory that they were in Britain got a boost when he saw the countryside. The girl got in front and Davidson loaded the agents into the bench seat in back, then got into the passenger seat.

“Not too fast,” he cautioned Green as she started the van. She drove away. Napoleon looked back at the place. It was a small one-storey white building, by itself, nondescript, yet still out of place in the middle of the verdant fields, with nothing but a sparse circle of trees around it.

“THRUSH Central?” Napoleon asked. The man twisted around in the passenger seat. He couldn't have been more than about 20. The girl's hands were bloodless on the wheel as she drove, equally intent on the narrow, hedge-hemmed road ahead and the rear-view mirror.

“We'll make a deal with you, Mr. Solo.” He was white-faced, breathing fast and hard. “We got you out of there. We want protection.”

“From?”

“THRUSH, of course,” the girl said. The van turned, bouncing onto a paved two-lane road with grass verges between the road and the hedges. She stepped on the gas.

“My name's Gary Davidson. That's Lisa Green. We ... we wanted to get out. We wanted to help you get out. But we know what THRUSH will do to us if they catch us. Will UNCLE protect us?”

“If you can get us to them, yes,” Napoleon said. “Where are we?”

“Dorsetshire. If we make it to London—”

“Then we can see to it that you're escorted to a safehouse. After you've been debriefed.” Napoleon saw a radio on the dashboard. “Can we call out on that?”

Gary looked at it. “I suppose so. You want to call UNCLE?”

“Secured channels,” Illya muttered. Napoleon glanced at him. Eyes shut, he was slumped against the seat, head lolling on the back of it.

“You playing possum, partner?” he asked. Illya shook his head and Napoleon gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, then said:

“He's right. We can't contact UNCLE directly on this. But we can call the police. It's better than nothing, and they can get hold of UNCLE London.” He grabbed the microphone and set the radio to an emergency frequency, informing the dispatcher who he was and his approximate location. The police dispatcher said he would send some officers out and notify UNCLE.

Napoleon dropped the microphone when a helicopter swooped down into view in front of them. Lisa screamed and slammed on the brakes. The van slewed left and right, then skidded off into the grass, bouncing to a stop.

Both agents were flung against the side of the truck. Napoleon lifted his partner off him and peered out the windshield to see the chopper land on the roadway. Karelian and three THRUSH thugs with rifles climbed out.

Gary pushed Lisa's head down. “Stay down.”

Illya crawled past Napoleon and slipped out the door on the far side, plunging through a gap in the hedge before Napoleon could stop him or ask what he was up to — or even if he was up to whatever he was up to.

Karelian stood in the road, flanked by gunmen. “Come out of the vehicle, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo. Don't force me to kill you and the others.”

Napoleon pulled Gary into the back of the van where he wasn't such a clear target, took the boy's rifle from him and set it on the floor near the door.

“Wait,” he said. Whatever Illya was planning, Napoleon wanted to give him a chance to do it. “Lisa, stay down. If you get a chance, get out on that side and get around the back.” The girl, still on the floor in front of the driver's seat, gripped her THRUSH rifle and nodded.

“You have one minute,” Karelian called out. “Then I blow up the vehicle.”

Gary shifted forward; Napoleon held him back, counting. At 45 seconds he let Gary go, nodded at the door. Gary opened it and climbed out, Napoleon behind him.

“Keep your hands in sight,” Karelian ordered. “Where are Mr. Kuryakin and Green?”

Three THRUSH rifles were leveled at them. Napoleon inched away from Gary, toward the back of the truck.

“Illya is unconscious,” he said. “In the van.” He nodded at the truck. “So is the girl. She hit her head on the dashboard.”

Karelian scowled. He looked even more wan and sickly in daylight. “Move away from the vehicle.”

A sudden scuffle at the helicopter drew all eyes. Illya had crept around to the chopper, but the pilot had spotted him; they were locked together, wrestling up against the cockpit windshield.

Napoleon saw movement from the corner of his eye. Lisa stepped out from behind the van, rifle leveled. She got off two shots, killing one THRUSH guard, before the others whirled and fired on her; their shots hit her in the chest, knocking her backward, rifle flying from her hands.

“No!” Gary shrieked, darting toward her. Napoleon took the opportunity to dive for her rifle, grabbing it and rolling. He came to a stop and slid his finger over the trigger. A brace of bullets whumped into the ground in front of him, spraying sod and grass, and he blinked, then aimed and fired twice.

Karelian's men fell away from him, leaving him alone. Napoleon got up, saw Illya crumpled on the ground against the helicopter landing skid. The pilot was in the chopper; he pulled back the stick and the helicopter lifted off. Illya rolled away from the skid, and the chopper swooped off over the fields. Karelian took two steps toward it, then stopped, watching it disappear.

“Don't move, Karelian,” Napoleon said.

Karelian slowly turned back to face Napoleon, one hand raised to his waist. He had the pistol halfway out of his belt before Napoleon fired; the bullet entered his forehead, flinging him to the road like a wet rag.

Napoleon ran to his partner, dropping to one knee beside the limp form.

“Illya...” He seized the Russian's shoulder, shook him, turned him over, saw those eyes blink, and let himself breathe again.

Illya looked up at him, pain and exhaustion still pinching his normally unreadable features. “What happened?”

“That's the last time I let you watch my rear when you're half dead.” Napoleon pulled his partner to his feet. “Some backup you are.”

Illya looked at Karelian for a long moment, eyes glacial. Then he turned a far more temperate gaze on Napoleon, who shrugged.

“He got between me and my partner.”

“I wanted to kill him,” Illya said calmly.

“I know you did. I wanted to more.”

Illya shook his head, as much argument as he could muster.

“Come on, Mr. Photographic Memory,” Napoleon said, taking his partner's arm. “Let's find you a bed to collapse into and some nurses to harass.”

“Wait—” Illya turned, scanning the roadside. Napoleon followed his gaze. Then he sighed.

***

 Gary knelt motionless beside Lisa's body.

The two agents, Illya leaning heavily on his partner, approached.

“Gary?” Napoleon said. The young THRUSH guard looked at him and Illya, dead-eyed.

“I'm sorry.” Wailing sirens made Napoleon glance up to see the blue-white flash of approaching police cars.  “Why did you do it?”

Gary shook his head. “I don't ... because of her.” He looked down again at Lisa's body. One arm lay outstretched, as if reaching toward the UNCLE agents. Gary touched it, drew it in close to her side.

“She wanted to help you. She ...” He shook his head again, slowly. “I think she sort of fell in love with you two.” He laughed, a hollow, haunted sound. “Isn't that ridiculous?”

The screech of tires on pavement and the slamming of car doors announced the arrival of the authorities.

Illya slumped against his partner, shaking, and leaned his forehead against Napoleon's shoulder.

“Yes,” Napoleon said, tightening his arm around Illya. “I suppose it is.”

The End

 


End file.
